I lost a set of keys. Intentionally.
Today I returned to the leasing company the keys to my home for the last year of my life. There’s nothing in my apartment save for a roll of toilet paper, a ghost (I’m convinced) and a year’s worth of memories, the good, the bad and the ugly.
The good was getting to live right next door to my best friend Natalie who I have had the grand fortune of knowing for four years now (but I don’t like to talk about how long we’ve been friends because it makes me feel old). She was always up for a stroll through our neighborhood and we oftentimes ended up at Starbucks or any establishment selling ice cream, the corner convenience store Happy Mart included for old school Push-pops. She’s long gone now and the rest of my neighbors aren’t nearly as fun so I must move too.
The bad was the rush of freeway traffic right outside my single-paned windows, the negative amount of counterspace in the kitchenette, the lack of modern day appliances, the lack of a cooling system.
The ugly was the slow death mice endured whenever I set out glue traps in the kitchen. And the Texas-sized cockroaches I had to chase across my bedroom with a Texas-sized shoe.
It’s been real Apartment #4! I hope to never see you again!
You have the right to remain sexy
There comes a time in every girl’s life when she will do just about anything to meet a guy. Internet dating, fender benders, set ups, adopting a dog, etc. While driving uptown’s streets last Saturday afternoon at half past one, I spotted the most attractive cop IN THE WORLD. How do I know he was a real cop you may ask? Because it was too early for him to report for duty to any bachelorette parties. He was tall, dark and handsome and had the most chiseled face and for a split second I considered accelerating past the posted 35 mph just to get him to chase after me. I’d break any laws just to know his name. I’m sure it’s something like Officer O’Feel. Cop O’Feel if you will.
I don’t know what I did to have been lucky enough to have seen this piece of sex on a stick but I’m going to start knocking off liquor stores and submit my application to join a gang in the wild attempt that he will put me in handcuffs.
I feel like Goober (peanut butter & jelly in one jar)
At the moment, I am in between everything, like the contents of a schooltime sandwich. I am in between boyfriends and accepting applications for a new one. I am in between living arrangements. I practice my couch surfing moves while waiting to close on my house, my furniture in storage. I am in limbo, tiptoeing into adulthood from young adulthood.
The contents of my twenty-seven year old life are divided between my apartment, a 10×10 storage unit and whatever I have loitering in my car. My apartment is starting to look like it did a year ago when I moved in, empty, walls bare. I won’t miss it. For those avid readers of mine, you know the only good thing about my apartment was the free cable and living next door to my best friend. She’s since moved and there’s nothing good on TV until the new fall season starts.
In between dreams I wake to the sound of trouble in paradise. The noisy couple across the cul-de-sac is starting to interrupt my beauty sleep as I’ll continually wake up to their screaming matches at 3 o’clock in the morning. She’ll yell “Fuck you”‘s and scream how humiliated she is by her boyfriend. I can’t imagine anything more humiliating than airing your dirty laundry in the middle of the night, waking the neighbors. Well at least I think they’re my neighbors. For all I know, they could be a random couple who chooses my dead end street as a symbolic venue for their dead end relationship each night.
Right now, I’d like to be between some sheets, asleep to dream of creating a housewarming registry with all things IKEA and Pottery Barn.
45 days to make my move
Things with my realtor/future boyfriend (boyltor? realfriend?) are coming to a bittersweet close. Bitter because I won’t be cruising around town with him anymore after work, popping in and out of homes I hope to inhabit. Sweet because after six excursions I have finally found a home that is the stuff of dreams.
If things go as planned, I’ll have a home of my own at the end of next month. And as exciting as it is to decorate and paint and buy new home furnishing to match my new home, I am more excited about the next step in our relationship. I’ll know soon if he liked me more than the 7% commission he was being provided by my home purchase. I hope that after we close the deal, he’ll still pick me up, take me out on the town and wine and dine me.
My new little guy
I haven’t met you yet but I am very excited to go on long walks with you. I’m excited to introduce you to my family and friends as the new love of my life. I’m excited to look deep into your big brown eyes, curl up on the couch, share some snacks and tell you about my day. You’ll be such a good listener. And you’ll be on your best behavior when you meet my friends that they’ll be envious. Of course I’ll reward you when you remember to put the toilet seat down after drinking from it; something my last boyfriend couldn’t be bothered with.
I don’t yet know the breed of my new dog that will come with my new digs, but I do know I will name him after my favorite soulful singer/songwriter Ray LaMontagne, Rayla for short. And I have a feeling he’ll be a real son of a bitch.
Chicago-go-go
My weekend in the Windy City recreating scenes from “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” was a fun-filled one. First stop, the break-taking views from 103 floors up of the Willis Tower. (It’s where the Sears Tower used to be). The see-through ledge wasn’t nearly as scary as the possibility of getting stuck in an elevator 103 floors up.
After the Big Willy Tower, it was off to the Art Institute where the works of O’Keefe, Degas, Monet, and other famous painters live. I would have been impressed if I wasn’t fully convinced that the real prints were stored in a vault in the basement. The outdoor art at Millenium Park was neat and “the bean” was by far my favorite. It’s a huge silver bean-shaped structure that attracts the vain of tourists as one can see one’s reflection in it. I took advantage to check for any spinach remnants in my teeth from my omelet breakfast.
Taking in art and birds-eye views can work up a girl’s appetite. Therefore, I performed my own taste test of Chicago’s famed deep dish pizza. Gino’s and Giordano’s were contenders. I couldn’t determine a winner since both were heavy-ladened with cheese and sauce. Both very delicious. Both made me want to nap afterwards.
The Navy Pier was where I sought reprieve from the deep dish pizzas and feasted on a cheeseburger cheeseburger at the Billy Goat Tavern where they have no fries but chips. It was delicious after a bike ride up and down the pier. I asked my traveling companion if he knew how to ride a bike. He said that it had been a while, to which I quipped it was just like having sex, something you always remember how to do no matter how long it’s been.
Without an opportunity to shop and visit Oprah, I’ll have to make a second visit to the Second City soon. Who’s with me?
Are you my next future ex-bf?
It’s September and in keeping the promise to myself to cannon ball into the dating pool after a 5 month hiatus, I am officially back on the market. And dear Universe, if you could deliver me a new boyfriend before the 31st that would be most advantageous for me and my stuff that needs to be out of my shitty apartment by then. I would be happy with our relationship only lasting one sweaty weekend. The best thing about boyfriends is putting them to work with all the heavy lifting us girls would break nails over.
And if it’s not too much on an imposition, I’d like a date to a wedding next month where my ex-bf will be in attendance serving as a best man. (Regrettably, I never thought him as being the best at anything). And if you could make my date outrageously hot I would very much appreciate it. He doesn’t even have to talk, just sit and look pretty, but not too pretty.
And let’s see, the holidays are just around the corner and I’d like to have someone to coordinate Halloween costumes with, someone to invite home to endure a Thanksgiving meal with my family, someone to knit an embarrassing reindeer sweater for come Christmas, and someone to lock lips with at the beginning of a new year.
For those fellow losers, you know it’s free communication weekend on eHarmony. I’ve never thought myself a tease until now. I’ve posted pictures of myself and communicate with guys I have no intentions of communicating with past Monday, the last day of the promotion. Call me old-fashioned, but I find it hard to believe that the same medium I pay my bills on has the potential of delivering me my future ex-boyfriend.
Until convinced otherwise of the virtues of online dating, I am officially allowing friends, relatives, and even strangers to set me up offline. If you know someone who knows someone who would like to meet a witty, smart, cute girl then hit me up. Guys still living at home need not apply.
Wax on, Wax Off
I am a little anxious about my voyage tomorrow to Chi-town. And I’m sure in my sleepy haze I’ll forget something. My flight to Chicago, by way of Atlanta, leaves at 6:10 AM which means that I’ll have to wake at 4:30 to make it to the airport the suggested hour before take off. I might as well not go to bed tonight.
I hope in my rush out the door I don’t forget my faithful tweezers. Not certain if tweezers are allowed onboard however. And if they are prohibited, I can’t imagine why anyone would threaten the pilot with plots of overplucking. And if they are contraband, I’ll have to bring in exhibit A, a photo of Loudres, daughter of Madonna to make the security attendants understand the consequences of not allowing me to board with my tweezers. Just like Loudres, my eyebrows will fuse together if I go three days without tending to them.
The reason I wan poetic on my waxing woes is from a traumatic event in my formative years. I’d like to thank the elderly couple I waited on the summer of my junior year. They asked after my ancestry because my thick eyebrows led them to believe I was of Irish descent. Mr and Mrs. I’moldandcangetawaywithsayinganythingIwant, I’d like to submit a bill for the years of waxing, plucking and threading I’ve had to endure because of you. And when I start my therapy sessions, I’ll send those along as well.
If I can’t bring along my trusty tweezing traveling companion, my first stop in Chicago will not be to the Art Institute or the Willis Tower or a bite to eat out of a deep dish pizza, but to the nearest nail salon for an emergency waxing session.
Deep Dish Dreams
In my non-official BUCKET LIST, filed under the “to visit” places have I always listed Chicago. Come this weekend I will finally be able to cross the Windy City off my list. I’ve asked friends near and far to dispense suggestions for what I should do/see/buy/eat while I’m there. I’ve received some good tips. And you can keep them coming until my 6:44 AM departure time the day after tomorrow.
Of course, there’s the Willis Tower, formerly the Sears Tower, but to the masses will forever be called the Sears Tower. It’s quite silly to one day change the name of a city’s landmark. It’s comparable to one day deciding during your mid-life crisis to go by a different name. Nobody cares enough about you to remember to call you a new name. They have trouble enough even bringing to the forefront of their mind your original name. And what the hell are we supposed to call Sean “Puff Puffy Piffy Spiffy P.Diddy Diddy” Combs? It’s exhausting to keep up with his latest identity crisis!
But I digress. As far as taking advantage of the elastic waistband pants I’ve got packed, I’ll be sure to partake of the thick, cheesy pizzas Chicago is famous for, but I think I’ll forgo the hot dogs as I am not a fan. Have not liked weiners since the first grade when they were the only item on the lunch menu that regrettable day. I can not believe there are people in the world who like hot dogs, made of “lips and assholes”. (Props to those “The Great Outdoors” fans who caught that). And I’ve even tried to down a veggie dog, but it tastes too much like the real thing. I’ve never understood the idea of a meatless burger or meatless bacon. If God wanted us to be vegetarians, he wouldn’t have made all the animals so damn delicious. Cows should taste like brocoli if they weren’t meant to be eaten.
As far as other items to add to the itinerary, I’m thinking about stealing my best friend’s father’s fire engine red sportscar and singing in German atop a parade float.
